


Kingdom Come

by ahurston



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Episode: s15e18 Despair, Fix It Fic, Future Fic, Getting Together, M/M, Mutual Pining, Reunion, Road Trip, We don't speak of the finale in this house, coda fic, human cas
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:42:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27510970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ahurston/pseuds/ahurston
Summary: Cas wakes up on the coast of Maine. He makes his way home.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 52
Kudos: 387





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> AU from the end of episode 18, Despair. Get that finale bullshit out of here.

Cas awakens by the ocean. Coastal Maine, going by the rock formations. He takes inventory of his body. Not his _vessel_ \- it’s been a long time since he’s thought of it that way. There’s gravel in his hair, and he can feel the beginnings of a sunburn on his face. Human, then. Or at least mostly so. Interesting. He has the fringes of a memory in his mind, a possible explanation for the way in which he finds himself, but nothing tangible yet. 

He’s naked, which is no surprise. It’s not the first time he’s reentered this planet that way. It’s close to dawn, which seems like a vaguely heavy-handed metaphor for his re-birth. He sits up on the rock he finds himself atop, bringing his knees close to his chest to ward off the substantial early-morning chill. He’s not overly familiar with this terrain, but if he had to guess, he’s somewhere near the northernmost point of Swan’s Island. He’s got a pretty good idea of the _where_ , and some grasp of the _when_ . What he doesn’t know is _how._

Dean. If anyone were to devise a way to retrieve him from that most unretrievable space, it would be Dean. His heart seizes in his chest at that thought, paralyzed at the idea of what Dean might have traded away. He has just enough of his celestial self to sense that Dean is still on this plane of existence. It might be that that is in fact all that’s left of his grace, if the very human emptiness in his stomach and sweat on his back are anything to go by. He needs to find a phone. And humans, he’s found, are more receptive to requests when the asker is clothed. So, clothes first. 

Looking around, he sees a small fishing shed not far up the shore. The walk/climb up the rocky beach makes him add shoes to his list of urgent needs. He tries the door, locked. Pressing his face to the glass of the shed’s lone window, he sees shelves with various supplies and provisions stacked neatly along the wall. Rods, nets, tackle, a bright red cooler. But more critically, what looks like a small bundle of what will pass for clothes. 

Offering up his sincere apologies to the owner of the shed, he selects a rock from the ground and breaks a pane of glass closest to the door, close enough that he can work his arm inside and twist the lock. The door swings open on rusty hinges, and Cas steps carefully around the broken glass to retrieve his prize - a pair of muck boots two sizes too large, a rough-knit sweater, and a couple pairs of jeans. He pulls the sweater on over his head, immediately cutting down on the shivers running through him. The pants are more of a challenge, gaping at the waist. He roots around until he finds a thin cord that can serve as an impromptu belt. Clicking shut the shed door, he reaches back through the broken window and re-locks the handle, out of nonsensical politeness. 

Where the shore meets the trees, he can see a narrow road, and he heads for it. 

*

The woman at the ticket window for the ferry is well-weathered and kind. She slides her own cell phone through the narrow space at the bottom of the glass, where a person would normally pick up their spare change. He checks the date on the home screen. Disbelieving, he sees that somehow only four days have passed since he said what he said to Dean, and since, judging by the continued existence of the world around him, the Winchesters saved the world again. Today has been full of mercies, big and small. He didn’t wake up _in_ the ocean, for starters. Cas thanks the woman, ducking around the side of the booth to place a call with shaking hands. 

It rings twice and goes to voicemail. 

_“This is Dean’s other, other cell. So you must know what to do."_

Except he doesn’t, he doesn’t know what to do. 

“Dean. I appear to be without my powers, at the ferry station in Swan’s Island, Maine. Oh, this is Castiel. I’ll call Sam next.”

He hangs up. That seems like a woefully inadequate voicemail, given the contents of their last conversation. Or rather, Castiel’s farewell monologue. It’s only a conversation if both parties participate, after all, and neither Cas himself, Death, or the Empty exactly made time for that. He dials Sam’s number. 

It rings, longer than Dean’s. 

“Hello?” Sam says, and Cas’ shoulders sag with relief. 

“Sam.”

“...Cas? Castiel - oh my god, hang on - _Dean?_ Dean!”

Cas hears scrambling on the other side of the line, and then Sam’s voice is back.

“Okay, Cas - I’ve got you on speaker. Dean’s here too.”

Cas swallows, but he knows just what to say. 

“Hello, Dean.”

“Hey, Cas,” Dean says, and his voice sounds much the same as the last time Cas heard it, choked and disbelieving. “You okay, man?”

“I’m fine, but most critically, are you?” Cas asks, heart in his throat. “Are all of you alright?” 

“Yeah, we’re good,” Sam says. “Jack too. Amara took out Chuck, with a little help from Jack and Michael. Then she took off for Venus. Something about better hot springs.”

“So this world - all of you - it’s all safe?” Cas asks, and given his last memories on Earth, the question sounds insane. “Where is Jack?”

“Heaven,” Sam says. “They found a way to make more angels, complete with free will this time. He’s helping out for a little while. But Cas, what about you? What the hell happened? Where are you?”

“Maine. And, I’m fine. No underwear, which is unfortunate. I cannot understand the appeal of ‘going commando,’ as you call it.”

Sam laughs, bright and happy.

“And I have no idea what happened,” Cas adds. “I thought you would know.”

“No, no clue. Shit, Cas. It’s so good to have you back. You’re on your way?” Sam asks. 

“Yes, but that might take a while.” Cas glances at the ferry schedule behind moisture-clouded plastic on the wall. “I’ll need fare for the ferry, at a minimum.”

“We’ll come to you, then,” Dean says, the first he’s spoken in a minute. 

“That won’t be necessary -” Cas starts to protest. It’s a very long way from Kansas to the Atlantic coast, after all. He can manage. 

“Fuck that,” Dean argues. “We’re leaving now. Grab the bags, Sam.”

“Wait though, no wings?” Sam asks Cas. “Are you - are you human?”

“For all intents and purposes, yes,” Cas answers, leaving out the bit about how he would know Dean Winchester’s cosmic stamp upon this earth until his atoms were scattered across the sea. As far as transporting himself to Lebanon, that is unfortunately beyond his present abilities. 

“Alright, I got a map pulled up,” Sam says. 

“That’s a two day drive, goddammit,” Dean interjects. “I’ll check the Greyhound schedules - we can meet somewhere in the middle.”

Cas feels warmth spreading from somewhere deep in his chest. It feels better than he might normally admit to himself, to hear the urgency in their voices. 

They settle on putting Cas on a bus from Bar Harbor to Buffalo once he’s back on the mainland, figuring that Dean and Sam can make better time in the Impala. Cas slides the phone back to the ticket clerk, who is gracious enough to accept the credit card number Sam reads out to her. She hands Cas his ticket stub, and he makes his way down to the dock. 

*

Cas stands alone on the top deck of the ferry, hands gripped around the cold, steel railing, and lets the ocean spray hit his face. He feels very, very alive. Vital, even, in a way he hasn’t experienced in quite some time, or ever. He wonders if that has more to do with his current mortality, or with the pervasive sense of lightness in his mind. He keeps no secrets now. Dean knows everything there is to know. 

He’s avoided this state of being for so long. He’s been conscious of his own feelings for years, after all. Long before the Empty made its promise to him in exchange for Jack’s life. All his fears, the terrors that kept him wandering the bunker’s halls at night, of all the worst ways Dean could respond - it’s all gone. In its place is the certainty of a home waiting for him in middle America, the promise of friendship, companionship, and belonging. He wants for nothing. 

In the distance, he sees the double blow of a baleen whale, a spout of water shooting up twenty feet in the air. He watches it slip below the surface again, and he breathes. 

*

There’s a bus ticket waiting for him in Bar Harbor. He cups his hands at the bathroom sink in the transit station, drinking in the water. Food is going to be a little more of a challenge. Dean and Sam drive fast, but he’s not looking forward to a day or two with nothing to eat. 

Nobody pays him any mind as he makes his way down the bus’ center aisle. He takes a window seat in an empty row near the back. The driver waits another twenty minutes or so for a few more passengers to pile aboard, but no one sits next to him. A woman and a small child are in the row across from his, and the child gives him a small wave before returning to dawdling with her mother’s phone. Cas leans against the cool glass of the window, and watches the scenery pass by. 

*

The bus stops in Portland, and the driver tells everyone to be back in ten minutes. Cas’ stomach has become more demanding, and he follows the drift of passengers out into the crisp air. There’s a hot dog cart to his left, a truck selling crab cakes to his right. And, across the street at the entrance to the station, a vending machine. A memory comes back to him, unbidden. Dean and Sam, a motel near Cincinnati. Sometime in 2008. Dean explaining how to push the buttons and hit the side of the machine just right to trick it into giving out a free meal. He figures he might as well give it a shot. 

This seems likely something best attempted with no observers. It’s tourist season though, and small groups of people mill about around him as he weighs the relative nutritional and satiatory merits of a Snickers vs. Reese’s Pieces. He sighs, thwarted, and stuffs his hands in the pockets of his jeans. 

“Hey,” someone says. 

Cas turns around. A woman is there, pretty with curly hair, green eyes. Not unlike Dean’s. It takes him off-guard. 

“You look like you could use something to eat,” she says, and hands him a plastic-wrapped sandwich before he can react. 

He’s been in this situation before. Except he’s fairly certain that this time, the person in front of him is not a mercenary reaper out for his blood. 

“I don’t live far - just on my way home, actually. So. Take the sandwich.” She smiles, and Cas adds another item to his list of the day’s minor miracles.

“Thank you,” he tells her. 

He just manages to wait until the woman is out of eyesight before peeling back the wrapper and diving in. Peanut butter and jelly, because the universe enjoys narrative symmetry, apparently. He tastes far more than molecules this time around. It’s delicious. 

*

Cas drifts to sleep somewhere around Portsmouth, barely noticing when the bus gets significantly more crowded on the outskirts of Boston. He’s aware someone is seated beside him, but his head is heavy, his body tired, and it’s not as if he has anything worth stealing. He sleeps, letting the whir of conversation and passing cars set him adrift. 

He dreams of Dean. 

When he wakes, he asks his seatmate, an elderly man, if he can borrow his phone. The man shrugs, and passes it over. 

He dials Dean, on instinct, but Sam picks up. 

“Dean’s phone,” Sam says by way of answer.

“Hello, Sam.” He’s not being avoided, he’s not. Dean’s probably just driving, and being safe. That’s good - that’s ideal. He will always want Dean safe. It’s just, he’d also like to hear his voice.

“Hey, Cas,” Sam says warmly. Cas loves him. “Man, still can’t believe you’re - how’s the ride going?” 

“Just fine. Passing through Worchester now. And for you? And Dean?” His voice does something transparent on Dean’s name that he did not authorize. 

“We’re good, almost to Chicago,” Sam says. “Dean - hey, is that gonna time out?”

Cas hears murmuring in the background, Dean’s low voice. 

“Yeah, you’re right. Who needs sleep, anyway,” Sam says, making Cas smile. “Alright, buddy, see you tomorrow in Buffalo, okay?”

“You’ll be alright without stopping?" Cas asks. There’s no -” a shuffle on the other end of the line, a disgruntled ‘ _h_ _ey’_ from Sam. 

“If you say there’s no hurry I swear to _fucking Christ_ ,” Dean says. 

“Christ was asexual, Dean,” Cas says, before he can say something else, like ‘please hurry.’

Dean laughs, bright and surprised, and it’s incredible to hear. Cas stores it away, to replay in his mind later. 

“Okay, buddy. See you soon,” Dean says, like it’s normal, everything is normal between them, nothing has changed. 

And, Cas supposes, that’s true, in a way. Nothing is different, Cas’ feelings are as implacable and permanent as always, the warmth of Dean’s care for him coming through loud and clear over the phone. It’s all he needs. Maybe not all he _wants_ , but he is wholly and completely satisfied. 

Almost. But he can live forever with almost.

*

He switches buses in Springfield as the sun is setting behind the trees, the golden hour casting his fellow passengers in their best light. There’s a young woman in the seat next to him, twisting and untwisting the cord of her headphones between her fingers, her dark hair covering most of her face. 

“Are you alright?” Cas asks. 

The girl jumps, glances at him suspiciously before she must see something in his expression that takes the fear out her eyes. 

“I’m - I’d say I’m fine, but. Well.” She looks down at her lap, picking at a loose thread in the hem of her sweatshirt. 

“While there is probably little I can do to assist, if you would like to talk about it, I am happy to listen.”

That’s something he’d never understood, before. The power of speaking, and of being heard. He can at least offer that. 

“You don’t want to hear some random girl’s problems, I’m sure,” she says with a shrug.

Cas tips his head to the side, smiles at her encouragingly. 

The next hour passes swiftly, as the woman, Farhiya, tells him about a boyfriend back in Boston, a disappointed mother in Rochester, and the nursing program she can’t decide if she wants to complete. 

Cas listens. 

Night falls eventually, and Farhiya drifts to sleep, her head pillowed on Cas’ shoulder. The bus is quiet, the silence occasionally broken by the sound of a child’s voice and a mother’s shushing, the subdued conversation between pairs of passengers. 

Cas lets his head tip onto the top of Farhiya’s curls, and he falls asleep. 

*

In Syracuse, Cas wakes as the driver announces an hour-long stop for refueling. Farhiya buys him a coffee and a pastry from a newspaper stand in the bus station, and they chat until they’re called back to the bus. 

Less than 150 miles to Buffalo. If Cas were to say he was perfectly calm, that would be a lie, and he’s trying not to do that anymore. 

Farhiya starts fidgeting when the bus takes the exit for Rochester. 

“What if she doesn’t forgive me?” she asks him.

“She will,” Cas says.

“How do you know?” she asks, eyes wide. 

Cas thinks of prayers overhead, Dean’s raw and broken forgiveness and apology in Purgatory. 

“I just do.”

Cas offers her his hand. She laces their fingers together and holds on tight. 

*

Cas watches through the window as a beautiful woman in a bright hijab gathers his new friend in her arms, and Cas smiles. Oh, the joy of a homecoming.

Less than ninety minutes later, the bus is pulling up to the downtown Buffalo Greyhound Station, a brutalist concrete building with severe, dark windows. It doesn’t match the helium in his heart as he looks around for the Impala. Not seeing it, Cas stretches his arms above his head in the sunshine, letting out the kinks in his spine, and looks around for a place to wait. 

He settles on a wooden bench under a tree across the street. An hour passes, slow and too fast as he scans the road for that familiar car. 

Then, he sees them. Dean, his hands stuffed in his pockets, Sam looking left and right. 

Cas stands on shaky legs, and makes his way to the intersection. Dean locks eyes with him just as the light turns green, cars passing in between them. He can see the impatience in Dean’s expression from here. Would it be inappropriate to run, when the light changes? Would that be too obvious? The decision is made for him when Dean barely waits for green to shift to yellow before he’s off, breakneck pace and headed right for him. Cas holds still, and braces for impact. 

He isn’t disappointed. Dean wraps his arms around his shoulders, Cas’ hands coming up around his back, and he’s being held so, so tight. 

“Cas,” Dean says, rough and slightly breathless. 

Then Sam is there too, his arms wrapped around the both of them. They’re blocking the flow of pedestrians, three grown men holding each other in the middle of the sidewalk. But Cas can’t find it within himself to care. 

They eventually untangle themselves, and Cas looks around for the car. 

He raises an eyebrow at Dean in question, and Dean scratches at the back of his neck before pointing at a beat-up yellow Honda parked crookedly against the curb. 

“Uh, we blew out a tire outside Cleveland, and well.”

“What Dean is trying to say is he left the Impala on the side of a less than ideal frontage road and hotwired this fine piece of machinery instead,” Sam says, with a grin. “We were in a bit of a rush, weren’t we, Dean?”

“You - you what?”

Color rising in Dean’s cheeks, and Cas doesn’t want to embarrass him. 

“Thank you,” Cas says. You didn’t need to do that.”

“That’s bullshit,” Dean says, brow furrowing. “It’s just a car, it’s not more important than -” he trails off. 

Cas smiles, pulling the handle for the backseat. 

“No, Cas - you’re riding shotgun this time,” Sam says, clapping him on the shoulder. “I’d say you’ve more than earned it. Dean flashes Sam a look that Cas doesn’t understand, but it doesn’t seem like protest. 

Cas settles into the seat, the cracked vinyl scratching where his sweater has ridden up his back. He misses the Impala. 

“Dude, what are you wearing?” Dean asks, mouth quirked as he takes in Cas’ ensemble. Sam is suspiciously quiet in the backseat. 

“A lobsterman’s gear. What do you think?” Cas replies, playing it straight and enjoying the way Dean’s throat bobs and his tight little nod as he wars with himself between politeness and honesty. “I actually kind of like the boots, but they’re a little big.”

“Man, I gotta - let me get you something of mine out of the trunk. We’ll find a gas station and you can swap out. You look like a butch Ariel who just got her legs from the sea witch."

“Ariel has better hair,” Cas says, trying to decide if he should take the comparison as a compliment or an insult. 

“Debatable,” Dean replies, before shaking his head and getting out of the car. Cas only has a moment to attempt to decipher that before Dean drops his duffel bag into Cas’ lap. “Pick out whatever you want.”

Cas slides back the zipper as Dean flips on the turn signal to merge back into traffic. He carefully picks through the bag, selecting a well-worn flannel and a soft, grey t-shirt. If he can imagine exactly how Dean’s shoulders look in it, early in the morning when he’s soft and uncaffeinated, who will ever know? 

“There’s some sweats at the bottom,” Dean says, glancing quickly over before looking back at the road. “Uh, not sure if the jeans will fit. You, um.”

Sam clears his throat in the back seat, smothering what sounds like a laugh. 

“We have different proportions, you’re right,” Cas offers, logically. 

Dean swallows thickly, and Cas sets the pile of selected clothes gently in his lap and the bag in the footwell. He smooths his hands over the flannel as Dean turns on the radio. Something acoustic fills the speakers, and Cas catches Dean’s grimace. 

“I love this song,” Sam pipes up, and Dean’s scowl deepens. 

The singer is baleful and pining, and Cas notices Dean’s hands twist on the steering wheel. Cas turns the dial, landing on the local public radio station. 

_“Another sunny day here in Buffalo, and in Albany, the state house is poised to vote ‘yes’ on a bill that would require all incorporated cities to form of a citizen review board with full oversight of police -”_

Cas nods, pleased. The arc of the moral universe is long, but bends toward justice. Dean relaxes in his seat, one hand dropping to the small space between their seats. Cas is more conscious of the distance than he would prefer, some significant part of his brain dedicated to informing him at regular intervals that if he were to shift his own hand to the left by a scant number of inches, they’d be touching. 

*

Just outside of town, Dean pulls into a Gas n’ Sip parking lot, and Cas ducks inside to change in the restroom. He opts for the jeans over Dean’s initial objections, but skips the belt. He carefully folds his scavenged clothes and tucks them into a corner of the trunk. They seem a suitable memento of a very surreal 24 hours. When he slips back into the passenger seat, Dean hands him a breakfast burrito and a coffee from the gas station.

“Figured you’d be hungry,” Dean says as Cas dives in. “I’ll make you something better at the bunker, promise.”

“His burgers really are awesome,” Sam says from behind them. “Oh, and Dean, you’ve got to make him that chocolate raspberry cake you made for Jack’s birthday when we get back.”

“You celebrated Jack’s birthday?”

“Oh, yeah, that was a weird week - there was this wood nymph, and -” Sam tells the rest of the story, as Cas sips his coffee and gives 80% of his attention to what he can see of Dean’s face in his peripheral vision. 

The next hour passes interspersed with a volley of back-and-forth questions, mostly from Sam. Cas gets a more detailed synopsis of the final battle, ending with Chuck blinked out of existence. He wishes he could have seen it. He answers Sam’s questions about what he remembers from The Empty (nothing), and whether he has any theories for how he got out (he doesn’t). He gets to hear the joy in Sam’s voice when he describes all their friends, everyone on Earth, reappearing as though they’d never left. 

Outside Cleveland, Sam tells Dean to take an exit north toward the lake, for something about a bookshop he wants to check out. Dean doesn’t question it, but when they pull into a parking lot at Edgewater Park, Sam is out the door fast. He opens and shuts the trunk, then taps on Dean’s window with a bag thrown over his shoulder. Dean jabs at the automatic window button, looking momentarily aggrieved at the shoddy workmanship.

“So I’m going to take off,” Sam says, leaning in and smiling. “Eileen is already here. We’ll meet you guys back home in a couple days, ‘k?”

“What the hell, Sam?” Dean sputters. 

“Alright, see ya!” Sam calls out, turning around and throwing out a wave before loping in the direction of Eileen’s red Plymouth Valiant. They peel out of the parking spot, Eileen blowing a kiss in their direction. 

“So, just you and me, then,” Dean says, with six unique expressions contained in one quirk of his mouth. “Here we go.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um. Well, it's been a minute. Thank you to my friends for helping this thing see the light of day. 
> 
> Warnings for non-graphic vomiting, anxiety, discussion of canon suicide ideation/attempt. So sorry.

“First things first, we’ve gotta go get my fuckin’ car,” Dean says, his arm propped up on the bench seat behind Cas’ head as he reverses out of the parking spot. The sleeve of his jacket brushes against Cas’ hair, and Cas doesn’t move, lets it happen. “I can’t drive this piece of shit another thousand miles. And Baby doesn’t deserve to get her rims stolen.”

“Of course, Dean,” Cas says. He’s eager for it himself; the leg room available in a late 1990’s Civic leaves something to be desired. 

They swing by a nearby tire shop before pulling in behind the Impala on a backroad in Linndale. Cas follows as Dean digs around in the trunk and returns with a jack and a lug wrench. 

“Can I help?” Cas asks, not exactly sure how he could contribute. He is admittedly lacking in the practicalities of vehicle maintenance. He could hand Dean tools, but he seems to have that covered. There has to be something...

“Nah, buddy. We’re cool." He gives Cas a stilted pat on the shoulder. "You just - take it easy.”

Cas stands uselessly to the side and observes as Dean goes through the motions. He talks to the car sometimes, apologizes more than once, and pats the frame like the Impala is a spooked horse in a storm rather than a feat of elegant engineering. Cas watches as Dean’s thumb worries over what looks like an actual scratch in the finish next to the driver’s side door, muttering curses and what sounds like a promise for better days ahead. 

For all of them, hopefully.

Dean stands back up, dusts his hands off. “Alright, good to go.” 

Cas nods, and after Dean packs up the tools, they settle back into their seats. Dean smiles, running gentle hands over the dash like he’s relearning it. Cas feels guilty. What if something worse had happened, the Impala damaged, or god-forbid, stolen. All because Dean had felt enough of an obligatory impetus that didn’t allow for a thirty minute pit stop.

“You really didn’t have to rush."

Dean holds a hand up, stopping him. “Cas, come on.” He looks pained, the opposite of Cas’ intention. As has often been the case in the history of their friendship. “If you say I should’ve left you at a bus station in Buffalo...what kind of shithead do you think I am?”

“Not any kind of shithead, but you already know full-well what I think of you.”

He sees the moment Dean’s ears start to go pink, his eyes darting away as he catches Cas’ meaning. He’s going to let Dean bring it up. Perhaps, he never will.

Dean shakes his head, shifting the car into gear and leaving the unfortunate Honda in the rearview mirror as he navigates back toward the highway.

“So how’re you doing? You need anything?” Dean asks, once he’s merged into the light late-morning traffic heading out of the city. 

Cas assesses himself. Nothing pressing, but human bodies have requirements that will soon be making themselves known. 

“A shower. Not an emergency, by any means. But soon.”

Dean nods, more nodding than might be considered customary. “We can stop in Indianapolis. That sound ok? Are you hungry, tired?”

“I’m fine.”

That’s mostly true. He is tired, down to his bones, but he knows from his last foray into humanity that a bit of baseline weariness is to be expected.

“That’s good, that’s good. Uh, warm enough?” His hand goes for the thermostat, fidgeting with the dials. “You want to listen to any music?”

Cas glances at him, puzzled at the uncharacteristic show of solicitousness. 

“I’m perfectly content. Are you alright? You seem a little...” _nervous_ , he doesn’t say. 

“No, no - I’m fine. One too many Red Bulls on the way or something,” he says, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Really fuckin’ good to have you back, man.”

“Thank you, Dean. I am very glad to be back,” Cas answers honestly. “It’s quite a surprise. I really thought this time would be permanent.”

Dean’s free hand balls into a fist against his thigh. 

“I...I did too,” he says. The Impala chews the pavement for a long moment. “So, how was Maine?”

Cas thinks of that sunrise on the coast yesterday. Definitely the most beautiful of his rebirths. 

“Scenic.”

“How ‘bout the people?” Dean asks then, eyes narrowed. “You meet any weirdos on the bus?”

“Quite the opposite, actually,” Cas answers with a small smile. 

“Yeah?”

Cas tells him about Farhiya, about the minor kindnesses of a handful of strangers. Dean, in turn, shares a story about a time he and Sam took a Greyhound from Nashville to Sioux Falls with nothing but a bag of trail mix for sustenance. Upon follow-up questioning, Dean explains how John had decided to take another hunt rather than drive Sam back to Bobby’s for the start of 7th grade, and Dean had taken the problem into his own hands. 

Like many of Dean’s adolescent stories, it’s heavily tinged with equal parts Winchester resilience and parental neglect. 

“Uh, any more memories coming back, of how you got out?” Dean asks as they circle through the outer ring Columbus suburbs. 

“Little snippets, mostly colors. Some sounds that don’t keep well in human memory. I can’t make sense of it yet.”

The corner of Dean’s mouth pulls down, uneasy. 

“You’re thinking of Naomi,” Cas says on instinct, recognizing that expression of suppressed worry on Dean’s face from a different time, a different miraculous resurrection. “The parallels are notable. However, in this case, I’m reasonably certain angels aren’t involved.”

“Yeah, no. I think we would’ve caught wind of it, with Jack helping out upstairs and everything.”

That raises another question. His son has pulled him from the clutches of the Empty once before, after all. 

“Jack tried - you gotta know that,” Dean says, anticipating him. As if Cas had any doubt. “The Empty did something, blocked him this time.”

Cas nods. That makes sense. “It would not stand for him succeeding twice. Call it professional pride.”

“Yeah, that’s what we figured. Petty dick. And as for Hell - first thing we did when we got your call was summon up Rowena before we got on the road. Figured it was worth a shot. She’s always liked you.”

“Arguable.” Cas has memories of bleeding from the eyes that point in another direction. “But, our relationship did improve substantially since she near-fatally cursed me.” 

Dean shakes his head. "We've all been there. She put her minions’ ears out for chatter though, all over the world. Nothing yet. So, covered heaven, hell. That takes care of all the major players.”

“Who else is left?” Cas asks, looking out of the window and taking in the sterile suburban office buildings, the ineffective highway sound barriers, the _trees_. It’s all miraculous. He never thought he would see any of it again.

“I mean, you. You’re left. Any chance you could’ve...” Dean trails off. 

“What, done this myself and forgotten about it?” Dean glances at him, apologetic, as though this, of all things, would offend him. “Yes, that is perfectly possible.”

“I mean, if Anna could forget who she was when she fell - does it work like that sometimes? Amnesia as a side effect?”

“There are so few case studies to draw from. And my situation is slightly different than Anna’s. When she fell, she assumed the form of a human infant with all attenuated mental capacities. Her angelic memories were compartmentalized, packaged away, to preserve her sanity. And that of her human parents.”

“Yeah, your baby babbling in Sumerian before she starts crawling might’ve been a giveaway that something was up,” Dean says. He’s not wrong.

“Point being, it’s hard to say what’s typical,” Cas continues. “But it wouldn’t be surprising that some retrograde amnesia accompanies the forceful removal of grace.”

“And you’re - you’re good with that? With all of it?” 

Dean switches the windshield wipers on as a fine mist starts coating the glass, the sky clouded over. 

“Being human?”

Dean nods.

“You’re asking if, when faced with the choice between a human life and an eternity as a waking ghost in a sea of endless black, I’d choose -”

“Okay, alright. Sounds stupid when you say it like that. Just, don’t think I don’t understand what you’re giving up.”

Cas knows for a fact that Dean doesn’t understand. He hasn’t seen the rings of Saturn with his own innumerable eyes, heard mankind’s halting first attempts at music made with bone flutes and their own unsteady voices, or communed with the Host in an unbodied, timeless Heaven. However, all told, it pales in comparison to the joy in sitting here beside his friend on a pockmarked stretch of highway in middle America. He lets the matter lie. 

The minutes tick by, over an hour lapsing. Dean doesn’t turn the radio back on. His hands are still on the steering wheel, a practiced, patently artificial calm. Cas turns things over in his mind. He had what should have been plenty of time on the journey from Maine to think, to prepare, and yet he finds himself at a loss. The fundamentals though, those need sorting.

"Dean, I need to know if I still have a place with you. With Sam."

Without a word, Dean pulls over to the side of the I-70, crooked and skidding with a cloud of gravel dust in his wake. 

He rips off the seatbelt and then his hands are cupped around Cas' face, as if he’s going to - going to...

"Goddammit. Okay? Alright?" Dean says by way of explanation, from inches away. He drops his hands, breathing hard.

Cas isn't breathing at all. It doesn't seem important.

*

They approach the first Indianapolis exit in the mid-afternoon. They could easily keep driving on to Springfield, but Dean is insistent on stopping. 

“You wanna get a drink? Something to eat?”

Cas shrugs, faux nonchalance. He’s starving, but he doesn’t want to be a bother. “If you would like to.”

“Cut that shit out, man,” Dean says sharply, full of familiar, semi-belligerent affection. “You gotta tell me when you need something.”

“Then yes, I am hungry.”

Dean probably wouldn’t appreciate an advanced explanation of the concept of love languages and how his is clearly Acts of Service. Cas feels cared for nonetheless. 

“Burgers sound okay?” Dean asks, mouth thin. He digs his phone out of his pocket, unlocking and handing it over. “Find us a spot, yeah?” 

Cas opens the map app, searching for nearby options. He wonders at Dean’s trust in him, either not to snoop or not to judge whatever he happens to see. He navigates them to a place not far from the highway and studiously ignores the occasional text notifications.

The tavern next to the motel is little more than a door in a concrete block wall, a neon Budweiser sign in what passes for a window. Dean flashes him a skeptical look before they head inside, but Cas holds out hope that more than 800 positive reviews for its signature stuffed burgers can’t be wrong.

There are a handful of customers inside, a group of men at the pool table. The well-worn barstools groan when they take their seats. Dean signals the bartender and orders them a couple of whiskeys in yet another practiced human ritual Cas has never learned to replicate. The menu is a single-sided laminated sheet, listing out myriad combinations of beef and cheese and an impressive lack of vegetables. It all sounds delicious. 

They place their orders. Dean tips back his drink like it’s water, the barest flinch to his mouth. Cas sips his instead. Who knows what his tolerance is now, after all. He doesn’t want to embarrass himself. The bartender appears as if by magic to refill Dean’s glass.

“So what’s next for you, man?” Dean asks, eyes fixed ahead of him and reflecting back at Cas in the dirty mirror behind the bar.

“What do you mean?”

“I dunno, what’s on your bucket list? Where do you go from here?”

Cas pushes down the bone-deep worry that springs to mind, that Dean is angling for him to make other plans, plans that take him away from him, away from the bunker. _Stop it,_ he tells himself.

“I think I’d like to grow tomatoes,” he answers honestly. “And something called ‘heirloom squash,’ maybe. There are the cleverest irrigation systems, raised beds, _compost_. It’s wondrous. Isn’t that what we deserve, after everything? The freedom to do as we please?” 

Dean just shakes his head, passes his empty glass between his palms on the bartop. 

“If anyone deserves freedom, it’s you. I don’t even know what to do with it.”

Cas looks at him, longer than Dean would usually let him with only the thin excuse of being a couple drinks deep on an empty stomach. He raises his hand in a poor facsimile of how Dean summoned the bartender before, awkward and halting. He asks for glasses of water along with their next round. 

“What is the first thing that comes to mind?” Cas asks. 

Dean glances at him and then away, eyes wide like Cas knows something he shouldn’t. What, Cas has no idea. 

Their food and drinks arrive, and Cas decides he doesn’t actually like whiskey as it burns a path down his throat. This small bit of heresy seems like something he should keep to himself. The fries on the other hand - excellent. 

“There’s things I gotta say to you,” Dean says eventually, setting his barely-touched burger down. “I just -”

Cas fights back the urge to insist that he doesn’t, that there’s nothing he needs to hear from Dean. But maybe this isn’t actually about him, maybe Dean has things he needs to say for himself. 

“How long?” Dean asks instead, taking Cas off guard. It takes him only a moment to catch Dean’s meaning. 

“How long have I loved you?”

It’s startlingly easy now, to give breath to that word. 

Dean nods.

“Does it matter? The fact of it remains regardless of its duration.”

“It matters.”

Cas considers. Doing justice to the question requires a complex answer. 

“There are different iterations, different phases of knowing.” Dean just looks at him, patient. “In some sense, since before you knew my name.”

Dean swallows, nodding and tipping his head back, eyes to the ceiling for a moment.

“You know, you have to be aware - that mark I left on your shoulder wasn’t entirely professional.”

Dean laughs, sharp and surprised, and grins at him. “What, you were staking your claim?”

Cas hums. “Not quite. More like, attempting to subvert Michael’s. You were never his, Dean. You belong to no one but yourself.”

“Jesus, Cas.”

They go back to their food. The reviews, it turns out, were well-deserved.

“So. That’s when I loved you first,” Cas says, wiping his hands carefully with a too-small bar napkin. “The way I loved you first - knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt that you deserved better than Heaven’s plan for you. Shall I continue?” 

“I think...yeah. Yeah. Let me just -” Another re-up on his whiskey. 

Winchester coping mechanisms being what they are, he isn’t surprised, but... 

“Dean.”

“Come on, this is nothing,” Dean says, and if Cas didn’t know the shape and cadence of his voice in every degree from sober to drunk, even he would be fooled.

“In that case, maybe we can discuss this another time,” Cas says, not unkindly. 

Dean nods, offering up a wry smile. “Alright, fine, fine. We’ll circle back ‘round tomorrow.” 

“Of course.” Cas hopes it won’t require as much liquid courage for Dean to revisit the topic, but he can be patient. 

Dean leaves his full glass on the bartop and goes for his wallet, laying out a few bills before tugging on Cas’ coat sleeve in the general direction of the door. 

*

Dean asks for two doubles at the motel front desk, as always. The young receptionist pushes her hair out of her face nervously when Dean smiles at her, flustered and fumbling when she hands back his stolen credit card and fake ID. Cas can sympathize. Even under buzzing fluorescent lights and half-drunk, Dean is distractingly beautiful. 

The shuffle of showers and changing clothes before they settle into their respective beds is unremarkable. This in itself is surprising. Cas now occupies a reality where he has openly talked about how long he’s loved Dean and then not an hour later argued with him about the relative merits of Cheers re-runs vs. a children’s cooking competition as ideal pre-sleep television programming.

“As long as it’s not any of that CSI, Law and Order bullshit,” Dean says, leaving the ultimate choice up to Cas. “I fuckin’ hate cop shows.”

The cooking show is surprisingly engaging, and Cas finds himself rooting for a plucky girl with braces who wears a different bedazzled headband in each of the three episodes they watch. He feels his eyelids start to droop during the Mystery Box segment, and Dean clicks the TV off. It’s been years since he’s felt such an acute need for sleep, but it feels intuitive to roll onto his left side, tucking an arm beneath his pillow. Dean mirrors him from across the space between their beds, and they fall asleep facing one another. 

*

Dean gasses up the Impala once the suburbs give way to corn and soybean fields again. Cas calls Sam to check in as Dean heads inside to procure coffee and something approximating breakfast from inside the store.

“Hey, Cas! How’re you doing, man?” Sam asks, offensively energetic for nine o’clock in the morning. “My brother pull his head out of his ass yet?”

“I don’t know what you are referring to,” Cas says with a sigh. He had forgotten how poorly he tolerates mornings as a human without the chemical assistance of caffeine. 

“Dammit, I owe Eileen twenty bucks now. Dean knows what he wants, but I guess he’s just too much of a chickenshit to do anything about it.”

“That’s not true,” Cas protests. “Your brother is anything but a ‘chickenshit.’” 

“Sure, he’ll kill Hitler and shoot the devil in the face, but even after everything, telling you he -”

“Sam.”

Sam sighs, dramatic, and Cas can practically see his pinched expression through the phone. 

“Alright, you’re right. It’s not for me to say. Just, trust me. I know him. He’ll figure his shit out, and as long as you’re there when that happens...”

“Where else would I be?” Cas asks, genuinely curious.

"Anywhere you want, I guess. But my advice? Stick around. It’s just a matter of time.”

“I’ve waited longer for less,” Cas says honestly as he watches Dean hold the door for someone with a smile, two precariously balanced coffees in one hand and a bag in the other. He thinks of icebergs carving canyons into ancient plains. Primordial animals crawling out of the sea. He can wait.

*

Dean grows restless as they cross into Illinois. His hand taps at his leg, the other restless on the steering wheel. 

“Dean, are you - are you alright?”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m good. Just thinkin’, you know.”

Cas gives him a long moment, waiting to see if elaboration is forthcoming. 

“Last night, you said... all the way back then, in hell,” Dean begins haltingly. “Even when I was - whatever I was. Probably had horns or some shit. You loved me.”

It’s a statement, not a question. Dean believes him. That makes his task easier. All Dean needs is to hear it again, sober and in the light of day. 

“Yes, I did. Do. Love you, in every form you’ve taken.”

Dean lets out a harsh breath. “Okay. Alright. That’s - you want to pick some music?”

Cas smiles. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I believe the adage goes, ‘Driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his -’”

“Rule doesn’t apply to you.”

*

They stop for lunch in Champaign, full to the brim with college town options that make Cas want to eat everything in sight. Sure, he is familiar with the historical roots and underlying chemistry of falafel, butter chicken, and pad Thai, but there is an unignorable urgency to the knowledge now.

They jointly decide on a gyro place, all decked out in Greek blue and white. Over stuffed grape leaves, fries, and pitas filled with everything delicious, Cas wonders at what is going through Dean’s mind. 

“You can ask me stuff, too,” Dean says, reaching across the table to steal a rogue olive off of Cas’ plate. “Anything.”

Cas considers the invitation. Over the winding course of their relationship, topics large and small have been off-limits. A door flung wide to _anything_ is more than a little overwhelming. He opts for familiar terrain. 

“How are you and Sam, after everything that happened? 

“Oh, uh. You mean after I - after I pulled a gun on him when we were getting puppeteered by Chuck. Yeah, not my finest hour.”

“I meant a bit more big-picture than that. Things seemed different between you two, on the drive from Buffalo. Lighter, maybe.”

The waitress returns to their table and checks if they’d like any dessert. Cas asks for baklava and a Turkish coffee, and Dean orders the same. 

“Yeah, so. We talked,” Dean says after she departs for the beaded curtain separating the kitchen from the dining room. “After you - you know. Took me a second, but we did. About how everything went down with Chuck. How I fuckin’ _felt_ about it. He helped.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“Some stuff I probably should’ve told him years ago. Don’t know what was stopping me.”

Cas is interested, curious beyond measure, but he resists prying. 

“My firsthand experience with deep, personal disclosures is quite recent, so I understand the hesitancy.”

“Why didn’t you - never mind,” Dean says, shaking his head and looking down at the tabletop. “It’s none of my business.”

“You want to know why I didn’t tell you sooner, in which case, it’s most certainly your business.”

“No, I mean. Yeah,” Dean squints an eye, head to the side. “But you don’t have to -”

Their desserts and coffee arrive. Dean smiles winningly at the waitress and thanks her, all awkwardness hidden away by well-rehearsed charm. 

“The answer is simple; I didn't want to burden you with it,” Cas says after she steps away. "Your life hanging in the balance, however, tipped the scales. To save you, to give you the chance to live out the rest of your life, happy with Sam, with Jack...it was worth it." 

Dean wraps both hands around his mug, staring into it and avoiding his eyes. 

"I'm sorry," Cas goes on. "I'm sorry there wasn't another way, I'm sorry this -"

“Hey, hey. No. Cut that out. Don't be sorry. Not about that."

Dean sips his coffee. Cas adds what he's been informed is an obscene amount of sugar and cream to his own before doing the same. The baklava is delicious. 

*

At some point near Decatur, Dean turns the volume down on the music but keeps his eyes steadfastly on the road. 

“Do you know what I did after you died - got snatched by black goo - whatever you want to call it.”

“You saved the world,” Cas says, going for the obvious answer. 

“Uh, before that.” Dean glances at him, swallows. “I sat on that fucking floor all night. Ignored Sam’s calls.”

“You what?” He had to have misheard. 

“Yeah, and it’s not like he didn’t have shit goin’ too. He’d just lost Eileen, had a whole mess happening with the folks from the other universe, but I just couldn’t give a shit. I was _done_.”

Cas is quiet, wishing he hadn’t eaten lunch with such gusto now that his stomach appears to be staging an armed revolt.

“And you know what? That isn’t even the only time it’s gotten that bad,” Dean says with a mirthless laugh. “Nearly fucking drowned myself in whiskey when you died the first time. Or, I guess it was the third time? Hard to keep track. The one with the Leviathans, the lake. Didn’t stop drinking until you came back. I was a shit hunter that year, even more of a shit brother. Could’ve gotten me and Sam killed and probably would have if it wasn’t for Bobby pulling my ass out of the fire.”

Cas swallows, feels a bead of sweat make its way down his spine. Dean takes a curve in the road faster than his digestive system would prefer. 

“Then when Lucifer - the rift. Man, I... you don’t know this,” Dean says, not making sense. “How could you know when I never told you? And I told Sam to keep his mouth shut, too, so. Anyway. There was this case, right before Jack saved you. Ghosts. I shoved a needle in my chest chock full of heart-stopper, and yeah, it was supposed to be temporary, it was supposed to help solve the case, but Cas, I wanted it to _stick_.”

Cas feels the blood drain from his face, his hands are shaking, he’s somehow both hot and freezing cold in equal measure.

“So when you said I’d be _happy_ with Sam and Jack - man, you gotta know -”

“Stop the car, can you pull over. Right now.”

Dean looks at him. “The hell, man. Okay, just gimme a second.”

“Please, Dean.”

He does what Cas asks, and Cas scrabbles at the door handle just in time to retch into the tall weeds at the edge of the pavement. He crouches down, one hand going to the dirt to steady himself as the wave of nausea passes. 

There’s a hand on his back then, between his shoulder blades, moving in slow circles. He feels Dean as a warm, solid line beside him, comforting and very much alive, as he should always be. 

“You’re alright, s’alright,” Dean says. And that’s a lie, a damned lie. 

Cas lets himself drop to a sprawled sit on the asphalt, and Dean goes with him. Cas turns his face into Dean’s shoulder, Dean’s arm wrapping around him as he gently shushes against his temple.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn't have laid all that on you,” Dean murmurs. 

Cas just clutches at him until his legs will bear his weight again. They stumble back to the car, Dean’s arm looped around his waist. Dean snags a water bottle from the trunk and passes it over. Cas gulps it down as the car idles. 

He takes slow breaths, in through his nose and out through his mouth, until the hot static in his brain settles enough for him to form words. 

“I thought you’d be - I was so sure - that you would be happy.” Cas says, thinking of the incandescent joy he felt in that moment, the clarity of purpose. “You would grieve for a time, but I was giving you that chance, that opportunity to go on and have the life you wanted, free of Chuck’s machinations. And I hoped, I _believed_ , you would take what I said with you. How good you are, how caring, how loved, because I’d told you so. It was supposed to make a difference.”

Dean tips his head back, eyes open to the roof of the Impala. “I’m sorry I was gonna fuck all that up too. Maybe not right away, but eventually. Losing you again was gonna make me sloppy, make me reckless.”

Cas curls in on himself, head to his knees as another wave of nausea crests and mercifully wanes before he needs to leave the car again. 

“I mean, I didn’t even say anything back,” Dean says wetly. Cas can’t look at him to confirm, but he knows by heart the sound of Dean breaking down. 

He reaches out blindly across the seat, palm open in invitation. Dean takes it.

*


End file.
